The Greatest Lover in All England

by Christina Dodd

  She grinned back at him, as grimly amused by their alarm as he. “Five minutes.”

  “We limped upstairs as fast as we could, avoiding the dining room and every servant, and went into the master’s antechamber, where we recovered ourselves and checked for injuries. Then you went to your bedchamber and locked yourself in, and I went downstairs to make your excuses to our guests.”

  She leaned forward. “And?”

  “And every one of them had left the room at one time or another.”

  He watched her as she followed his logic. The dull gold of her plain dress brought out the highlights in her hair and reflected the freshness of her complexion and the glow of her amber eyes. Whether she liked it or not, she was all woman.

  Not the kind of woman he’d known before, though. His other marriage prospects would have been worthless consultants in such circumstances. Rosie would face the facts without flinching, help him deduce the scheme, and she’d want to help him deal with the culprit.

  She wouldn’t leave him to deal with the culprit. He ran his hands through his hair. Therein lay the rub, didn’t it? How did he keep Rosie in her womanly place?

  “You can’t seriously suspect Sir Danny?” she asked.

  He countered, “You can’t seriously suspect my sisters? And Lady Honora?”

  They looked at each other for a long moment, then burst into laughter.

  “The thought of Lady Honora skulking through the bushes…” Rosie imitated a rigid figure drawing a bow, and he sobered.

  “I’ve seen Lady Honora during a hunt, and she’s an expert with the bow.” Rosie sobered, too, and he leaned forward. “Don’t you see? Every one of them has reasons.”

  “But who’s in danger?”

  That was the question, and they both knew it. The arrow had struck directly in the place he’d been standing, but without knowing the skill of the bowman, they had no way of knowing at whom he’d been aiming. The dilemma had kept Tony awake through most of the night. Somehow the thought of injury to himself seemed less worrisome than an injury to Rosie. He’d seen her in pain once when she broke her arm; he couldn’t bear to see it again.

  “You’re a popular master. Your servants do whatever you command.” Rosie looked at her fingernails. “Could it be that one of your servants or tenants might wish to remove me and my claim on the estate?”

  He’d thought of that, too, but he didn’t believe it. He could handle Rosie and her claim. Surely everyone knew that. But someone had tried to separate Rosie from him in the crudest way. He suspected the simplest crime of all. The crime of passion. “Are you cursed with some inappropriate suitor?”

  She blinked at his brusque query, but she didn’t flinch. “Besides you?”

  Insolence. She’d almost been killed, and she looked at him through clear, bright eyes and mocked him. Well, she could be insolent, but he could be intimidating. Stalking over to her chair, he stood in front of her, toe to toe, and looked down at her. “A suitor. A lover. Someone who might be jealous enough to take aim at us with a bow and arrow rather than allow you to marry me.”

  “Is that the best explanation you can think of?” She spoke to his belly rather than acknowledge his height. “That someone was shooting at us out of thwarted love? You flatter me, sir.”

  So he didn’t intimidate her. No surprise. “So you have no suitor?” he insisted.

  “How could I have a suitor when until yesterday I was an itinerant actor?” She answered well, but her gaze shifted to the arrow in his hand, and she reached out and removed it from his grasp.

  “You’re the kind of woman all men love.”

  “They’ve been hiding it very well.”

  Leaning over, he placed his hands on the arms of the chair, trapping her. “It’s that Ludovic, isn’t it?”

  Her start was answer enough, and he remembered the fellow’s bold visual claim during the first play Sir Danny’s troupe had performed. “I knew it! He challenged me over you before I even knew I would have you.”

  “You’re not having me.”

  She spoke with conviction, but she answered a man who’d never conceived of defeat. “I’m having you every night in my dreams, and last night I would have had you in truth, but for the arrow.” He rejoiced to see her color rise and her breath come more quickly. The stomacher bound her, and he winced when he thought about her breasts mashed against her body. He imagined an expedition to liberate them, and thought of Rosie’s gratitude for his concern. She’d cup one for him, and he’d place his mouth on it and suckle until she—

  Her hand grabbed his hair and jerked his head up. “Mayhap you’ve made someone angry enough to kill you.” Lifting the arrow in her fist, she aimed it at his heart. “From what you said last night and the way you’re acting today, it’s possible. More than possible—probable.”

  He grinned at her threatened violence, and something in him eased. Her mind might be convinced that he wouldn’t have her, but her body answered his in perfect accord. “My enemies aren’t likely to use an untipped arrow to assassinate me.”

  “Ah. You have a higher class of assassins.” She nodded knowingly and loosened her grip on his hair. “Perhaps I should ask if you have suitors—and of course you do. Mayhap it is not a man who shoots so well, but one of your ladies.”

  “None of the ladies I know would shoot an arrow at me.”

  “All of the ladies I know would.”

  He glanced again at her flushed chest, then into her furious face. “Not after they got to know me.” Pulling up a short stool, again directly in front of her, he sat. With his head lower than hers, she would be less threatened. That, combined with his appeal, would surely win him some answers. “Are you sure your arm wasn’t hurt when we hit the floor?”

  “It was wrenched a little, that’s all.” Watching him warily, she lifted the splint within her sling. “’Tis you who should be injured.”

  “I have bruises up and down my side.” He tried to coax a smile from her. “Want to inspect them? I’ll let you kiss them into health.”

  She shook her head.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “And not likely to find out.”

  They stared at each other, then he reached out and smoothed his thumb across her lower lip. “I could kiss you and show you how it’s done.”

  “Ludovic wouldn’t have missed.”

  As a distraction, it worked well. The pleasure in him curdled, and he let his hand drop away.

  “He was a soldier on the Continent, and he’s the reason we escaped those places where they wanted to rob and murder us. When he fights, he makes no mistakes.” She was quite earnest, and clearly relieved that she’d diverted him.

  But he could divert her, too. “I have a present for you.” He stood and walked to his desk, and she stood, too, moving away from the chair and into the middle of the room, where he had no chance of trapping her.

  Foolish woman! She stood no chance against his wiles.

  He kept his gaze trained on her, and fumbled for the drawer. The handgrip he sought eluded him, hidden in the intricate carvings of the desk. He had to look before he found the handle, then pulled the drawer out and held up his gift. “A purse.”

  She looked less than impressed. “A purse?”

  Two round pieces of tough tapestry material were sewn together. A sturdy string looped through holes at the top and formed one long strap. “Here.” He advanced on her. “Take it.”

  She smiled politely. “I appreciate your kindness in all things, but I have one.” She did indeed, a large and grubby bag that ill matched her splendid attire.

  He pressed his more elegant purse into her hand and let go, then grinned when she almost dropped it.

  Astonished, she weighed it in her hand. “What’s in here?”

  “A chunk of marble.”

  “What do you want me to do with it?”

  “Keep it with you at all times.”

  “Keep it with me?” She looked at him as if he were c
razed. “It must weigh twenty stone!”

  “You exaggerate. It doesn’t weigh more than ten.” Reaching out, he ran his palm up the muscle in her arm. “It’s one-half stone, and it’ll build up your strength.”

  “What am I supposed to do with this”—she disparaged him with her tone—“purse?”

  “If you’re threatened, you swing it.” He moved behind her so his chest was against her back, then took her wrist and pivoted in a circle.

  The purse whipped around, a weapon of ballast, and she understood his purpose without further explanation.

  Stepping back, he watched as she took a few practice swings. He’d added to his lady’s arsenal, and that gave him a sense of security. With her gifts, she’d not be taken from him by force. But still she remained impassive in the face of his beguilement, and his chagrin knew no bounds. There had to be a way to keep her at his side, at least until her barriers had failed her and she languished at his feet like a proper woman. Baiting the trap with a new tidbit, he suggested, “You’re going to be a very rich woman when we marry.”

  The purse wavered. “I’ll be very rich when Her Majesty awards me the estates,” she corrected, but two words had caught her attention. “Very rich?”

  He could have rubbed his hands in glee at the success of his ploy. “Aye. Have you thought what you will do with so much money?”

  “I had a strawberry once.” Her eyes widened. “Will I be able to afford strawberries?”

  “Even in December.”

  She snorted and in her gutter-girl accent, said, “Ye’re chaffin’ me.”

  “Some very clever farmers grow strawberries within doors, with windows all around, and grow them all year long.”

  Her lips parted, her eyes widened; she looked the picture of a starving waif. “Sir Danny used to buy me honey cakes.”

  “I’ll have the cook make them tonight.”

  She touched her lower lip with her tongue. “What about…?” She concentrated, but her imagination failed her.

  “Almond milk? Stuffed chicken with spiced apples and oatmeal? Oranges? Carp?”

  That caught her fancy. “Fresh carp?”

  His sense of triumph faded beneath her awe and amazement. She adored Sir Danny, and he’d done what he could for her, but there had been lean times. She had gone hungry. Had she choked down day-old fish or eaten beggar’s scraps? His own stomach cramped at the thought, and he wanted to grant her every wish. “Fresh carp, certainly, and prepared any way you like.”

  “Oh.” She thrust out her right hand, but her purse was still in it. Laughing at herself, she traded it to the other hand. Snatching his hand, she lifted it to her lips and kissed it. “I hadn’t imagined such bounty. I’ll be fat as a smokehouse wife in a year!”

  His fingers tightened, and she looked up at him: engaging, happy, completely unselfconscious, and kissing him spontaneously. But it was the kind of kiss a servant gave her master, and he brought her hand back to his mouth and returned the salute in reverent tribute. Taking the marble-laden purse, he tied it to her belt, then said, “Come.”

  “Where?”

  He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “To the kitchen.”

  He pulled her along so quickly she was puffing when she reached the lower regions. “Mistress Child?” he called. “I’ve brought your new mistress to meet you.”

  A tall, rawboned cook turned from the fire where she supervised the roasting of a joint, and in unison she and her dozen assistants dropped curtsies, bobbing like boats on the waves.

  “It’s taken ye long enough, ye rascal.” Mistress Child bustled forward, welcoming Tony and Rosie with floury, outstretched hands. Catching sight of her fingers, she chuckled deeply and wiped them on her voluminous apron, then clasped Rosie’s hand and gave her the salute which Rosie had just given Tony. “’Tis honored I am, m’lady.”

  “I’m a rascal, and she’s m’lady?” Tony teased. “Have you no respect for me?”

  “Great respect.” Mistress Child poked him in the ribs with her elbow. “I have great respect fer any man who eats as hearty a meal as yerself. M’lady,” she cooed, urging Rosie toward a stool, “won’t ye sit an’ visit a bit?”

  “She wants more than that, mistress,” Tony said as Rosie wondered at his intention. “She wants to know what you’ve prepared for dinner.”

  “Takin’ o’er yer duties early, are ye?” Mistress Child winked and smiled at Rosie. “Good thing, too. Young Sir Anthony needs a firm hand on th’ reins or he’ll be riding roughshod o’er ye.”

  Tony looked annoyed, although Rosie didn’t understand why. “I’m not a horse,” he said.

  Mistress Child paid him no attention. “We’re going t’ start wi’ clear oxtail soup. Do ye like that, m’lady?”

  Embarrassed, Rosie whispered, “I don’t know.”

  “Ye don’t know?” Mistress Child looked affronted. “Ye mean ye don’t know if my soup measures up? Well, let me get ye a bowl, an’ ye’ll tell me ’tis th’ best ye’ve ever had.”

  Appalled, Rosie said, “Nay, ’tis not what I meant at all. I meant”—Mistress Child thrust a full bowl and a silver spoon into Rosie’s hands—“I’ve never had—” The steam rising above the bowl distracted Rosie. Bits of orange carrots and clear onions floated in a rich brown broth dotted with slivers of meat. The mild scent of garlic mingled with the richer scent of peppercorns and cloves, spices Rosie had only dreamed of tasting. Dipping her spoon in, she watched as the broth flowed into the shiny curve, filling and changing it from an expensive ornament to a useful utensil. She sipped the broth and almost fainted from joy. “It’s a beautiful spoon,” she said, “but it doesn’t do justice to the soup.”

  All the workers in the kitchen let out all their breaths at once, just as if they’d been holding them, waiting for Rosie’s verdict. Before Rosie could lift the spoon again, Mistress Child whisked the bowl away.

  “Wait!” Rosie protested.

  “Get her th’ deviled kidneys,” Mistress Child ordered, and the kitchen sprang into action. “Th’ marrow toast, an’ th’ cold steak pie.”

  Before Rosie could speak again, a small platter covered with delicacies was presented to her. Ecstatic, she tasted each one. A mug of ale appeared at her elbow, and she drank it in one long swallow. She’d never dreamed of such heaven—sitting, eating her fill, drinking as much as she wanted, breathing wonderful aromas, surrounded by people who wanted to please her. It was worth taking that torturous bath for this. She paid no attention to Tony as he spoke to Mistress Child; she simply ate as she had learned to—quickly, before someone took it away.

  Another plate appeared before her nose. Tony waved it, crooning, “Apple pie and cheese.”

  She gave up the empty plate to Mistress Child and reached for the new delights, but Tony held it out of reach. “I’ll feed you. If you keep eating like that, you’ll be ill.”

  “Didn’t ye break yer fast this morn, m’lady?” Mistress Child looked concerned.

  “Aye, I did, and wonderful it was.” Closing her eyes, Rosie recited, “Grilled sausage, kippers, spiced chestnut cream, and dropped eggs. See?” She opened her eyes and rummaged in her big old bag, then held up filled, turnover-shaped crusts dusted with the previous contents of the sack. “I saved some of the pork pasties for later.”

  Scandalized, everyone gasped, and Rosie realized she’d made a huge blunder. But before she could do more than blush, Tony broke the crust of the pie and the scent of cinnamon and honey steamed out.

  “Eat this,” he whispered, “and know you’ll never lack again while I am living.” With his fingers, he fed her the first bites.

  “Eh, Sir Tony.” Mistress Child tucked her hands under her apron. “Ye aren’t usually so willing t’ share yer apple pie.”

  Tony joked, “It’s not often I get to see such a look of ecstasy on a woman’s face.”

  The kitchen crew laughed, but Rosie didn’t understand and didn’t care. Tony’s fingers caressed her lips as he fed her warm pie and chu
nks of strong yellow cheese. He didn’t seem worried about the apple juice that ran toward his wrist or the bits of crust that clung to his skin. When it got too sloppy, he simply held his hand to her mouth, and she licked it.

  He trembled and she looked up; he looked back, his gaze hot. “Someday, I’ll let you do that to me when we’re alone,” he murmured. “But I’ll wait until I’ve satisfied your voracious appetite.” He smiled whimsically. “I’d hate to have you bite.”

  That she understood. She pushed the plate away, careful not to touch his skin, but it was too late. She knew what he wanted, and if she weren’t careful, he would make her want it, too. Mistress Child offered another mug of ale, and Rosie accepted it, sipping it this time.

  Tony used a finger bowl, then dried his hands with such fastidious care she could think of nothing but those hands on her body. Of course, he watched her the whole time, projecting his thoughts into her mind, arousing previously useless instincts.

  Mistress Child brought her a finger bowl, and she wet her shaking hands before drying them on a towel offered by an older maid. The maid curtsied and rushed to introduce herself. “I’m Mary, m’lady, an’ on behalf o’ th’ other servants, may I say how gratified we are t’ have ye return, Lady Rosalyn, to Odyssey Manor. ’Course, ’tweren’t Odyssey Manor when ye left, but Sadler House, but we’re gratified.”

  “Were you here when Lord Sadler and his…when Lord Sadler was here?” Rosie inquired.

  That seemed all the encouragement Mary needed, and words bubbled from her. “Aye, there’s two o’ us maids ’twere here when ye was a child, me in th’ kitchen, Martha in th’ laundry. We stayed fer a bit after they found yer father’s body an’ while th’ queen was lookin’ fer ye, but eventually Hal came back an’ closed th’ house. Told us ’twould be cheaper t’ run, an’ he took care o’ it all fer a bit, he did, an’ how a man could do so much, an’ alone, I’ll never know.”

  “Nor I,” Rosie said, a little dazed by the flood of language.

  “’Twere a few men here working th’ stable what worked here before, too, but they scarce saw ye before an’ ye know men, they’re not th’ least mawkish. Only glad t’ get th’ work back when Sir Anthony got th’ estate, an’ we’re all glad ye’ll wed him so we’ll not be turned off again. I always say life’s hard enough without losing th’ income from a position like this.”